


Air Power

by kabrox18



Category: Doom (Video Games), Transformers: Prime
Genre: Blood and Gore, Explicit Language, Gen, welcome to crossover hell!!!!! welcome to crossover hell!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-03-20 11:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18991540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabrox18/pseuds/kabrox18
Summary: The angels and seraphim want Doomguy to make friends. They don't realize how attached he'll get.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.deviantart.com/kabrox18/art/Skyslayer-V2-802220222 there he is. the man of the hour (edit: now with a proper fanart :D)

The last Hellknight collapsed, crumbling like a landslide of mottled, scaly flesh. The Slayer was seeing double; he’d already used his second wind, and was feeling the effects. something pulled insistently at his conscious, threatening to drag him into the black.

 

He fought it, tooth and nail, swaying on his feet and slumping against the nearest support—a wall. He sunk down, giving a weak wheeze at the black closing in. He keeps feeling that pulling, the endless drag as his soul lifted. Voices and shapes surrounded him, painfully bright and loud.

 

“We will care for your body, while your mind is placed in the care of a more durable form. It will be temporary. May rest grant you clarity.” The probably-angel waves, and he feels like he’s being shoved through the neck of a bottle.

 

He wakes up to an unfamiliar overlay on his vision, and phantom sensations. He sits up abruptly, all but falling off a large boulder. Senses he isn’t familiar with pour data in and he stumbles, overwhelmed suddenly as he slumps against the nearest object again; a cliff side. He squeezed his eyes shut, hands clamped over his ears as he tries to come to terms with these new senses. It evens out, slowly.

 

He comes back to the forest he’d woken up in initially, but so much  _ more. _ The overlay is tinged the same familiar blue-green as he remembers, and there’s a simple targeting dot in the center that follows his head movements, but not his eyes.

 

He looks down, curious how the rest of him changed. His legs are  _ weird _ for one, longer than he remembers and bent twice. One must be his knee, but the other—the word escapes him, but he’s quite sure it’s his ankle, or the equivalent. It’s flexible yet sturdy, and when he gets up to test his weight, it’s springy and responsive. He moves around more, noting the retained size and breadth.

 

He has claws, too. They’re painted an earthy brown, darker than he remembered his gloves being. Maybe it changed at some point. They look so plain, simple joints and little armor. Even the claws themselves are simple tapered cones.

 

His senses are still a lot, but he’s adjusting quickly. He starts walking carefully, thinking that this must be a young forest for the trees to be so small. He hears an animal call and comes closer, surprised when it’s an  _ adult  _ moose that doesn’t even come up to his ankles.

 

One of his new senses—radar, maybe?—pings a bogey above and behind him. He ducks immediately, shuffling away to try and slip off. He watches his own back for a precious moment, stepping out from the tree line and nearly smacking headlong into someone. He jolts back, staring at the blank faceplate of a robot that’s tiny compared to him.

 

“Soundwave. Retrieve the source of that Decepticon signal.” He stares at the faceplate-screen even as it plays back the recording, stunned. It stands there silently, turning a bit when a swirling green portal opens a few meters away. It starts walking, clearly expecting him to follow. 

 

He does after a long moment, albeit unsurely.

 

They better have some damn good guns.

 

—

 

“So, another mute one,” Starscream grumbles, drumming his clawtips against the plating of his opposite forearm. “Do you have a name?”

 

Silence. Truth be told, he was trying to come up with one. The bot in front of him was _Starscream,_ the boring black, silver, and purple ones were _Vehicons,_ and the big chrome bastard laying in the medbay was _Megatron._ _Soundwave_ was the silent one who picked him up, and _Knockout_ has been described to him; he decided to show up as the thought passed his mind.

 

“I heard from a little bird we have a new recruit.” Knockout all but swaggers up, red irises flitting across his dark eyes as he assessed the new machine before him. “Well well well. Certainly a little uncreative. Earth tones are so  _ boring. _ We should give you some fun accents.” He just grins, and Starscream nudges him aside.

 

“I suggest you take his  _ aesthetics _ with a grain of salt,” he said. “What we’re really focusing on is your alt mode and name.” He paces in a languid little circle. “If your spark really is as new as Soundwave says, you don’t even have that much. So come. Let’s get you some wings, shall we?”

 

“If you ask me,” Knockout murmurs behind his hand, “automobiles are far better.” It earns him an unhappy glare from the crabby little jet.

 

“I will bring you to a human air museum. They will have a broad spectrum of craft for you to choose from. I suggest you choose something that suits your particular style, but would fool an average human.” Starscream turns, starts walking. 

 

“Starscream,” Knockout drawls, gesturing to him in a funny little wave. “That’s no flier. Look at him. He’s so… down to earth.” He looked pleased with himself for using the human phrase correctly. Like a preening bird. “His bulk would do so much better on the  _ ground,” _ he emphasizes.

 

“That’s what we have Breakdown for,” the jet retorts, obviously unhappy.

 

“Come  _ on,  _ Starscream. Look at him.” He splays his tidy little clawed hands at the large mech. “He needs wheels.”

 

“And he’ll get some, in the form of  _ landing gear. _ ” The jet leans in, Knockout scowling.

 

“I don’t like having another flier full of hollow limbs and delicate parts,” he snaps and leans away, clearly displeased by his proximity.

 

He rumbles lowly, eyes narrowing a little at the robots before him. Neither was more than half his size. Both silenced at his annoyed sound, looking almost surprised.

 

“Mute, but not silent,” Starscream murmured, collecting himself. Knockout’s face is expressionless, but it’s clear gears are whirling in his head as he eyeballs the giant. “Well. We should be going.” He moved away from the medic, gesturing to follow. Knockout just rolls his eyes.

 

He examines the red bot a little, then trails after obediently. The portal opens again, despite nobody warning about it. Weird.

 

—

 

He pauses in front of the majestic machine. Broad, sturdy wings, four mighty propeller engines, and big enough to cause havoc should anyone try to harass him. It was  _ perfect. _

 

“Have you made your choice?” He nods, points to the plane. “Ah, but… don’t you think a jet would be more suited to your… strength? They’re  _ far _ faster, and-“ he shakes his head, making Starscream fume for a few seconds before forcing a level head. “Fine. Scan this hunk of junk and let’s go.” He storms off, and he turns back to the plane, trying to figure out how exactly to  _ scan it. _ It comes naturally though, and he can feel himself change to mimic the powerful machine.

 

He walks out, pleased with his decision, and looks to Starscream calmly. The jet glowers at him, but nods a little. “Your airpower will be… sorely needed.” It’s low, and obviously unhappy, but it’s true. All the flyers he saw were lightly armored jets. A massive flying fortress was exactly what was needed to even the scales.

 

—

 

They fly back to the  _ Nemesis,  _ and he’s never felt better in his life. Feeling each plate and mechanism shift into place, then taking off with a roar, it was  _ thrilling. _ He could feel every tiny shift in the wind, the way air buoyed under his vast wings, the way he could easily cruise where Starscream sprinted. It all felt so natural.

 

They landed, Starscream huffing about  _ oversized mecha with scrap for brains _ as he stalked off. He turned though, surprised to see a welcoming party. Soundwave was perched on the upper deck casually, and watched him silently. He walked up, feeling the way his wings involuntarily perk up. Soundwave had retrieved him, saved him and given him shelter, and he wasn’t nearly as obnoxious as Starscream. Or Knockout, for that matter.

 

No, Soundwave was silent and welcoming even without moving an inch. He decided to try something daring. He didn’t know how to thank the spy, but he did know that he could come close, very close. Soundwave seemed wary, tentacles unspooling a few feet as if to warn him to back away. He ignores them, though, and leans down, gently pressing his faceplate to the smaller bot’s. Soundwave gives a garbled noise, like a hiccup of static, and it’s clear he’s stunned by the affectionate gesture.

 

He pulls away, walking off and letting Soundwave see the way his wings shift. He heads belowdecks, going to meet with Knockout. Apparently the doc wanted to get updated scans of him to ensure that their data was up-to-date. No biggie.

 

Vehicons pass him in the halls, murmuring as they watch him go. Unsurprising, but familiar. He simply ignores them and stops patiently at Knockout’s door, allowing the doctor himself to open it. Those eyes roved over him again, giving an interested  _ hmm. _

 

“Well, I see you didn’t pick a jet. That’s refreshing.” He waves the bomber in, looking his back over as well. “You look... healthier like this,” he commented, tone going flat. Clearly he was settling into the actual medical mindset. Rather rare, from what he’d witnessed. “This means you get your badges now.” Knockout nudges him into a scanner, the beams sweeping him over a few times.

 

“Knockout! What in the-“ Starscream starts, but pauses when he sees the guest. “Ah. Performing the… updates, I see.” He narrowed his eyes. “Has he settled on a name?” Knockout looks to him, and he nods.

 

“Well, the scans are done. Input it.” He offers a tablet, and he types it out.  _ Skyslayer. _ “Mm, flashy  _ and _ fitting. Very nice.” Knockout smirks as he saves the scans under his new name, and gestures for him to exit the scanner. “The badges take a few minutes each, and then you’ll be mission-worthy.”

 

“Good, because I have one planned. You’ll be taking a group of Vehicons to sniff out a potential deposit of valuable minerals. Your job is to babysit them.” Starscream simply smirked, walking off.

 

“Oh, lucky you,” Knockout snarked, rolling his eyes as he picked up a pair of Decepticon badges to affix to Skyslayer’s large shoulders. He held them up, eyeballing them a bit before setting one aside.

 

“Chest?” He asks, standing in front of him and setting it to the gap in his chestplates. He grunted. “Yes, agreed. Looks bad. Wings, then?” He goes to grab the nearest one, only to be whacked solidly with it, stunning him for a moment. “No. No wings then.” Skyslayer grunts again.

 

Knockout  _ hmms _ and flicks his hand into a welder. “Simple and sweet then; on your shoulders.” he sets the symbol against his shoulders, setting to work. It almost feels like what he imagines getting regular tattoos must be like. “You know, you look good with this on you. Don’t tell Breakdown.” He winks.

 

Was he  _ gossiping? _

 

The process—despite it all—only took a maximum of 20 minutes, but then Knockout decided to do something else. He huffed, but cooperated, allowing the doctor to poke and prod all manner of biomechanics in his throat and chest.

 

“Interesting. I can’t find anything physically wrong with you. So your muteness is psychological.” Knockout clearly thought this meant he was  _ stupid, _ and felt annoyed by it. “Well, that’s all I wanted to look at. Run along now.” He waved him off, and Skyslayer glared daggers at him as he went out, barely containing his anger.

 

He decided to hit up the bridge to visit Soundwave before they left for the mission, hoping it might cool him off. The team of Vehicons was waiting, a gaggle of fliers. Soundwave was deep in his own work at his console. The vehicons started murmuring, plating shifting slightly in his presence. He makes a mental note of it.

 

The groundbridge opened for the group before he had a chance to say goodbye, but he was able to leave a ping for the spy.

 

—

 

They bridged practically on top of the mineral deposits, and surprisingly, Knockout sent a comm.

 

“Breakdown’s going to stay with you, show you the ropes. I don’t like Starscream booting you on your aft like this.” Sure enough, a large, blue con came through the groundbridge just before it closed. “Now, you two big bots play nice.” The line cut, and the one of the Vehicons comes up to him.

 

“We’re ready when you are.” He gave a nod, looking to Breakdown. They both were quite sizable, although one had his own ideas about alt modes, just like Knockout.

 

“So you’re the new kid. Don’t look like the little brat I was expecting. I mean, Pit, you look like you could take on me and win.” He lets a laugh escape him, dry and tinny, before turning. The  _ of course I could _ is there, but he doesn’t say it. “So. The deposit is a stone’s throw away.” Breakdown looks around, yellow eyes lingering on the bunch of Vehicons.

 

He starts walking, pulling the map up but leaving it in the corner of his field of vision. He notes Breakdown hesitates to follow him, but the Vehicons murmur something amongst themselves and trail after.

 

They come to a broad canyon, the deposit marked as being somewhere in a shallow cave on the other side. He looks to the marker, then points to it, turning to face the others.  _ There. _

 

“Right. you guys head over there. I’ll keep an eye on the bridge coordinates to make sure no Autobot scum come biting at your backsides.” Skyslayer watches him a moment before walking away, leaping down and arranging his wings to glide the short distance across. The Vehicons follow suit, meeting him at the mouth of the structure before going in. He stays at the entrance, deciding it would be a better use of his firepower to fight rearguard. 

 

Speaking of, he’s yet to test what kind of armaments he’s picked up.

 

He reforms his arm easily into a stout, wide-mouthed gun. Broad energy shot intermixed with particulate meant this was a shortrange weapon. In fact, his favorite kind. He reforms it back, flexing his claws in amusement at the ease of it. The other hand shifts, utilizing his propeller blades seemingly chipped at a wicked angle. A saw. A very pleasing looking one.

 

Once he’s happy with his weapons situation, he resumes watching the canyon. Breakdown comms him.

 

“I heard a bridge not far from here. Keep your eyes peeled for that little yellow scout.” It’s low, like Breakdown is still listening. The line drops, and Skyslayer feels his sensors prickle. Some disturbance in the air. He turns, arm already prepped to blow a hole in whoever got too close. It’s no yellow bot, but rather a royal blue and seashell pink one with narrowed,  _ blue,  _ eyes.

 

“Freeze, ‘con,” she snaps, readying her own guns. He looks down to the light rifle-like extensions of her arms, examining them… and  _ laughs. _ So tiny! Even if they were extremely precise, they lacked the firepower to bite through his thick hull. He decided this one would be more fun to toy with in hand-to-hand. Just like he did demons. So he retracts the shotgun, and lifts a hand, coyly waving her closer in a taunt.

 

She looks stunned for a second, but switches to forearm-mounted blades, screaming a battle cry as she charged him. He easily sidesteps her wild charge, slamming an elbow into her back and dropping her like a ton of rocks. She groans but rolls,  _ barely _ dodging the snarling teeth of his saw. It chews into and shreds the ground, but comes in a deadly swipe after her. She jumps nimbly onto his shoulder, successfully dodging again.

 

He laughs, grabbing her by the legs and slamming her full force into the ground. He can hear the  _ crunch  _ of plating crumpling, and brings his saw to bear on the stunned Autobot. She stares in openmouthed horror at the eager blades getting dangerously close to her torso, but a string of synthesized beeps and tones make him look up, startled. Another, this time the yellow scout. He snarls, standing and pinning the blue one under one large foot as he unfurls a new weapon from the gap between his neck and a shoulder.

 

The scout whirs high in alarm, and dodges the initial projectile, only to be thrown forward when it explodes. He grabs the now-close machine, dragging it up and spinning up his saw.

 

“Stop right there!” An authoritative tone demanded from behind him, and he turned, eyeing this new machine up and down. This one was about the same size he was, and painted in glossy red and blue. He threw the scout into the canyon wall, putting a little extra weight on the bot underfoot to ensure she didn’t get up.

 

The new machine watched him levelly, not so much as blinking at his psychological tactics. He growled, low and mechanical, and hunched his shoulders, readying another grenade shot.

 

“Stand down, stranger,” he said, more gently. “I wish to speak to you.” Now  _ that  _ caught him off guard. He delayed the shot, relaxing; he can feel his wings tense in curiosity, sensors wringing every piece of data they could out of this bizarre Autobot.

 

“I am Optimus Prime. I’ve never met you before, and I detect a young spark beating within you. My conscious will not allow me to bring harm to a new machine, no matter their allegiance. I ask you step aside.” _What?_ _That makes no sense,_ he thinks. “You are clearly confused. Do you know what cause you serve?” Well of course. He points to the badge on his shoulder emphatically. A broad hand held up stops him.

 

“Do you know why we fight the Decepticons?” He shakes his head slowly. “They wish to eradicate the indigenous life here on Earth in search of energy for themselves. They will not stop, at any cost.”

 

That  _ enrages _ him. He sees red at the words.  _ These machines would plow Earth over for energy, just like Hayden and his disgusting plans. _ He suddenly grabs the badge, digging his claws under the seams and ripping it off despite the white hot pain that brings; he throws it down, the other joining it. He crushes both underfoot and meets the Autobot’s eyes steadily as he can manage. He then turns to leap and transform, flying away.

 

_ I have business to conduct. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here's where some of the blood comes in. nothing excessive, but if that isn't your cup of tea, tread lightly.
> 
> also, autobot introductions! :D
> 
> can you guess which one is my favorite? :P

Oh, he was  _ livid. _ Simply enraged.

 

It wasn’t uncommon or new, but anger felt new in this body. He flew for what felt like  _ hours _ before landing, shifting out in the middle of the desert.

 

Sandy, silty dirt easily gave way beneath his talons, not really providing the resistance he was after. He snarled, letting himself shake, plating rattling. Even his wings writhed at his back. Just allowing himself to show it helped, and he cooled off into gentler simmering.

 

It was by no means catharsis, but it was enough to let him focus. Now he just needed a distraction. A nearby abandoned road had a puddle in a section to rinse his talons, and then he decided to explore his new body a little and truly acquaint himself with it. This wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this.

 

Faceplates retract into a maw full of teeth to rival his saw, and he likes the way they feel. The puddle, albeit dirty, shoves his terrifying reflection back at him. He grins at it, deciding he’d avoid using it when possible for a shock factor. 

 

He examines his hands more closely; he wiggles his fingers slowly, examining the mechanisms and falsely delicate-looking tips of his straight claws. His wings were  _ piled  _ with sensors. Touch-sensitive, they seemed to pick up every tiny change in the air easily. 

 

He dug deeper into his various internal systems, finding a  _ radio,  _ surprisingly enough. He tunes it, listening for a moment to the staticky, conflicting broadcasts of two equidistant towers. He changes it, and finds an  _ encrypted channel. _

 

His curiosity eventually gets the better of him, and he decides to ping it. Might as well.

 

—

 

“Well it’s certainly… strange,” Ratchet agrees. “But not unheard of.”

 

“Indeed. It saddens me to know that Starscream indoctrinated this young mech without allowing him freedom of choice,” Optimus replies.

 

“The cons don’t have morals,” Arcee grumbled, still nursing her wounds. Crushed winglets and dented legs were the  _ mild _ parts. “It doesn’t surprise me that he didn’t know.”

 

“Your words hold truth, Arcee, but it always stings the spark, seeing their deviousness in action.” He turns back to the monitor, clearly done with the conversation.

 

“If he elects to join us, I’ll be able to bring him into the fold.” Ratchet steps back from his console, going to check on Bumblebee again. “It wouldn’t be hard to give him new badges and perform routine scans to ensure he’s healthy.”

 

“Wouldn’t it be a bad idea to let a Decepticon in?” Bulkhead asks. Bumblebee chirps and beeps, explaining how he’d pulled the ‘con badges off himself and stomped on them.

 

“Oh. So he disagrees with them.”

 

“Pretty violently,” Arcee nodded. Ratchet finishes up with Bumblebee, heading back to his computer and giving a little grunt.

 

“I think he’s too young to truly give himself to either side of the conflict. We’ll see how things play out.” He notes a Decepticon ping on their encrypted channel, and warily allows the connection.

 

“I disagree with their plans. But you will not harm the one I care about.” Ratchet reads the textcomm aloud. “I will work with you, under this condition; lay one hostile finger on Soundwave, and you shall be missing your...  _ head. _ ” He winced slightly. “We hear you loud and clear,” Ratchet mumbled, stunned. “Land at these coordinates and I’ll bridge you in. For safety reasons.” The connection abruptly cuts, but the signal he’s tracking does start moving toward the indicated point.

 

He powers on the bridge, and a large bot steps through, walking slowly. He pauses as the groundbridge shuts down behind him, and looks around at the alert Autobots. He sees the two he injured resting in the nearby medbay, Optimus Prime, and two that he’s yet to meet. The one nearest, the medic, from the looks of him, goes to speak up, but clamps his mouth shut when he holds up a clawed hand.

 

“I am not a part of this conflict of yours.” He sounds coarse—laden with static, almost. Damaged internals, maybe. Ratchet narrows his eyes a little, curious.

 

“You seem strongly opposed to the Decepticons,” Prime notes.

 

“Because I am. But I’m  _ not _ in your war.” Bumblebee buzzes inquisitively.

 

“Bee says he thinks you’re already pretty caught up in it.”

 

“War and crusade are two different things,” he replied coolly, then turns to Ratchet. “I need red paint.”

 

“Er, very well. This way.” He leads the former con back, pointing out the paint and applicators. The medic rejoins his team, and they bunch up to discuss the strange bomber. He pretends not to hear as he carefully paints the undersides of his wings with the Slayer’s Mark, covering over the star paint job he copied from the original plane. He can’t reach the topsides, but it doesn’t matter much to him, so he leaves the paint how it is.

 

“Want some help?” A young voice asks, and he looks over to see a pair of humans standing together. One has puffy brown pigtails, striped with pink, a black tee, and shorts. The other has windblown blonde hair, squarish glasses, and a sweater vest.

 

“No,” he grumbles, and goes back to inspecting his work.

 

“Aw, c’mon! We cannot totally get the other sides for you!” He shoots a glare to the girl who insisted.

 

“ _ No. _ ”

 

“Oh. Sorry Miko, guess he doesn’t want those spots painted.” Skyslayer glowers at them a little longer before grumbling some vague noise of affirmation, going to sit carefully.

 

“Oh sweet!! You won’t regret this, big guy! Raf an I totally have an eye for this stuff!” Miko darts forward, grabbing the big paint bucket. 

 

“Get a picture of that emblem so we get it right,” Raf said, and looked up. “Hmm. You might have to lay down so we can reach your wings.” He watches the girl snap a picture on her bubblegum pink phone, then run off to let him lay down. He can feel them clamber onto his wings, and scoffs, shaking his head rapidly to try and dissolve the laughter building in his throat. It felt… well, it  _ tickled _ to have them climbing around on such sensitive appendages.

 

It tickled even more to feel the mop delicately swipe the emblem onto him. He stifles a laugh in his fist, all but squirming as they finish the last stroke. The pair head to his other wing, easily painting it on as well.

 

“Okay. What do you think of that?” He sighs, shooing away the remaining giggles and looking over his shoulder to see the well-done Marks. He nods, allowing them back onto the ground before he stands.

 

“You look great!” Miko chirped, giving him a double thumbs-up.

 

“Yeah. What’s that symbol mean, anyway? Is it some kind of… language thing on Cybertron?”

 

“He’s too young to remember such things,” Ratchet interjects. “I think it’s more something to allow him freedom away from both sides of the conflict.”

 

“Something like that,” Skyslayer grunts. Everyone’s attention is drawn to the comm panels when they light up with an alert.

 

“Something is coming.”

 

“Cons?” Bulkhead asked eagerly.

 

“I don’t know, it’s an unknown energy signature, but it’s big and getting stronger.” He types quickly, narrowing coordinates for the groundbridge.

 

“Bumblebee, you, Bulkhead, and Arcee will take our guest and investigate.”

 

“What if he runs off?”

 

“Let him,” the Prime says evenly. He makes brief eye contact with the bomber. “If he wishes to leave, then permit him that freedom.”

 

“Understood.” The team leaves without another word.

 

—

 

He can tell what the energy is before they’re all the way through. He knows that crackle. He can smell the irritating, ionized gas. The reek of blood long spilt. He walks out more slowly, wings dipping. Bumblebee and Arcee watch him steadily, the way he seems to struggle with something internally.

 

“Demons,” he finally spits.

 

“What?” He points, simply. A hole in reality, pulled in a long gash, crackling with red lightning. Creatures spill forth, little ones climbing over each other, larger ones flying and leaping through. Skyslayer stares at the veritable flood of demons, shifting his forearm out into the saw and starting it.

 

“Mine,” he says, simply, and stalks forward.

 

It’s a lot easier to slaughter them like this. Imps and Hellrazers are hardly more than bugs to be crushed underfoot, Revenants can’t outfly him, and even Cacodemons fit like large oranges in his hand. The first one he crushes makes him laugh; he lets the blue blood run rivulets down his forearm.

 

A Baron, now about level with his waist, roars a challenge. He grabs it by a horn, shoving his shotgun against its chest and firing until the legs crumple, completely separated from the not-quite intact head. He throws it aside, uncaring.

 

“Uh, guess he’s got it,” Arcee mumbles, stunned by the display of gory violence. “We should bridge back. Let him handle this.” He cleaves a demon in two, turning with a chuckle.

 

“Running already?”

 

“Uh, you obviously don’t need our help,” Bulkhead pointed out. He seemed uncomfortable. It pleased him, right down in his core, and he half-closed his eyes as he crushed another Cacodemon. Feeling them crumple in his hand was far more satisfying than he thought it’d be. Seeing the Autobots squirm was just icing on the cake.

 

The fracture closes, though, demons scrambling over each other. He lets them run, hearing the word “slayer” a few times. So they recognized him, even like this. Good.

 

“That was brief. And weird.”

 

“Can we uh, go? Please?” Bulkhead asks, eyes still fixed on Skyslayer, who was idly examining his bloody claws.

 

“I’m detecting no more signs of the strange energy,” Ratchet reports in their ears. “I’ll bridge you back now.” The green portal opens for them, and the three head in without hesitating. The fourth pauses though, looking down to the grassy ground. He crouches, digging his fingers through the dirt, entrenching his Mark into the earth.

 

He stands, dusting his hand off, and heads through the groundbridge.

 

—

 

“Autobots do not use such… excessive force,” Optimus explained, clearly struggling to find the words. “It is a part of our moral code.”

 

“Morals are for pretty bots like you who think war is all tact,” he snaps in response, scrubbing demon blood out of his joints.

 

“I have seen far more of this war than I would like,” he says calmly. So he didn’t rise to the bait. Clever. Skyslayer lifts his red eyes, meeting the steady blue of the Prime’s.

 

“I already told you, I’m not a part of this. You can preach to me all you like.” He looks back down at that, ignoring the stunned look from the others. He struggles around the words, something painful welling up in his throat as he talks.

 

“Optimus is just trying to-“ Ratchet started.

 

“I must ask you to avoid intervening, my friend,” Optimus softly interrupted. Ratchet glanced to the bomber, clearly thinking, before nodding and returning to his work.

 

“Such a sound leader,” Skyslayer mocks. “So reliable and brave. Disgusting.” He all but spits at him, standing. “Alright, Prime. You want me to play nice?”

 

“No. I simply wish for you to try and scale back how you react to-“

 

“To what? Demons? The thing I’ve been fighting with for… as long as I can remember? For  _ centuries?”  _ He can’t keep a lid on his anger.

 

“But that’s impossible,” Arcee breathed. “You’re too new.”

 

“Ever think there was a stage before this?” He gestures to himself, wings pricking up in annoyance.

 

“You were… something else?”

 

“ _ Something _ else, alright. At one point I was human, but…” He laughs mirthlessly, almost glad for the grating, unpleasant sound of his voice. It drives his point home.

 

“How did you end up a machine?” Raf pipes up. “Uh, no offense guys.” Bumblebee chirps, apparently saying ‘none taken’. Skyslayer simply rolls a hand, looking away. His throat—or whatever equivalent—was beginning to burn more from all the talking, but he kept going anyway. He’d been through worse.

 

“Some angels decided my semi-human body needed help after my last endeavor, so they took it and shoved me in here.”

 

“And you were picked up by the Decepticons,” Ratchet concluded.

 

“Yes. That’s exactly why I’m upholding that  _ threat _ I made before I got here.” He has to pause and cough, half-surprised robots even  _ could _ cough. Regardless, he decides to be done talking.

 

“The thing about Soundwave? But he’s the creepiest con there!” Bulkhead splutters, only to get a harrowing glare from the resident neutral. Skyslayer stands, going to leave the large room in annoyance. Optimus frowns at the way his wings flick in angry dismissal.

 

“Our hostilities are a very painful thing for our new mech. I believe he has some kind of relationship with Soundwave.”

 

“Optimus,” Ratchet half-scolded. “You know that even new bots don’t do such things.”

 

“He is older than we expected. Perhaps some part of his memory latched on to the Decepticons’ spy,” he responds, terribly grave.

 

—

 

He wants to leave. He feels caged here, like everything is too small for his broad wings and large frame. He sulks, miserable, in one of the back rooms. It’s as big as a warehouse but the ceiling has hardly a foot of clearance over his domed head.

 

He’s seated now, wings clamped close to his back and limbs tucked close too. He wants to fly but can’t, and it’s stressing him out. He also wants to see Soundwave, ask him the endless questions swimming in his mind. The door slides open and he looks up, eyes dim.

 

“Are you feeling alright?” Ratchet asks, gently. He just stares at the Autobot medic, who blinks, sighing and shaking his head. He steps in, closing the door behind himself, and sits awkwardly beside him. Blue eyes don’t meet his. “Optimus is concerned that… some part of your memories, from before you were a machine, are binding you to Soundwave. I wanted to… talk about it, instead of just speculating.”

 

“You’re too kind,” he croaks weakly, deadpan.

 

“I know I am.” Ratchet rolled his eyes, something he didn’t expect from an obviously older mech. “I do want to know, though. Why do you protect their spy so… vehemently?”

 

“Well he’s… quiet. I always liked quiet. He was the one who pulled me out of the woods and got me cleaned up. I don’t know if he reciprocates any of it.” Skyslayer noses his blunt snout-plate at one arm, peering at Ratchet over his elbow. “I never really had any relationships, even before,” he mumbles.

 

“I suspected that,” Ratchet says, surprisingly gently. He sets a hand on the bomber’s shoulder as lightly as possible, inwardly pleased when he doesn’t immediately shrug it off. “Soundwave is something of an enigma. We hardly know anything about him aside his level of skill. Personality files, original function… all that data was lost early in the war.”

 

“Yeah. I get that,” he says, barely audible. His eyes flick away, the already dim red muting even further against the polarization of his visor. “I lost myself in my own war.”

 

“Against those creatures?” Ratchet decides now is the time to remove his hand, making note of the halting jerk in the closer of his wings’ mechanisms. Contact craving.

 

“The demons. A lot of humans kind of… dismiss them as just a myth, but I’ve seen them all, I’ve been in their realm a hundred times. They’re real, and they took away  _ my _ humanity.” Ratchet makes a soothing noise in the depths of his vocoder, a reflex even he is surprised by. Skyslayer watches him a long moment, then looks away again.

 

“My apologies,” Ratchet murmured. “I don’t think I’ve done that since the early days of the war.” The bomber doesn’t respond, so he stands. “I… thank you. For telling me this. I won’t tell Optimus, but… If you need a shoulder to lean on sometimes, I’m here for you.” He walks out quietly, leaving the ex-con to himself.

 

—

 

Skyslayer appears, for all intents and purposes, to be peacefully asleep. The kids and Ratchet watch him attentively for a while, and hide themselves when those red eyes flicker on. He immediately sits up, wings hefting. Ratchet takes notes of this behavior; he woke up and immediately flooded his sensors with data to ensure his immediate locale was free of hostilities. He stood, shaking himself out and ridding himself of the stiffness of sleep.

 

Ratchet steps into the doorway then, and the bomber looks to him with disinterest.

 

“You’re awful at hiding. You all are.”

 

“Awwww!” Miko whines, climbing out of her hiding spot. “How’d you know?”

 

“I’m a  _ bomber, _ ” he scoffs, drawing himself up pridefully. “I have reliable things like  _ radar. _ ”

 

“I suspected as much,” Ratchet chuckled, pulling up a device and hitting a button. Nothing outwardly changed, but Skyslayer narrowed his eyes, wings shifting subtly. His so-called reliable radar had just been interrupted, and he was attempting to make sense of the dissonance between his senses. He turns it off, giving a curious little  _ hmm. _ “You should let me scan you. The Decepticons have record of you, but I don’t.”

 

“No.” He bristles a little, surprising Ratchet. Still, he schools his expression, getting a sneaky little idea. Stubborn patients wouldn’t stop him.

 

“I want to… play a game,” he offered, instead.

 

“Game?”

 

“Humans like to call it hide and seek. You should be great at it,” he said, a teasing half-smirk on his faceplate. “After all, you have radar.” There’s a challenge there, and predictably, Skyslayer’s eyes get big and bright, eager to meet this unspoken challenge head-on. “Of course, if you don’t want to-“

 

“Thirty,” the bomber growls. “Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.” He covers his visor, folding his wings down to clamp off his sensors there. Ratchet urges the kids to hide, while he slips off to his own spot, turning on the device. The countdown finishes and he immediately starts searching.

 

He almost instantly finds Miko, lifting her cover one-handed to squint at her in a seemingly happy—or at least pleased—expression. Raf is next, and the youngster giggles at the playful little grumble from the bomber. Jack’s just sitting casually, surprising Skyslayer.

 

“Why aren’t you hidden?”

 

“I… opted out.” Jack simply shrugs, earning a strange look. He moves on, looking casually for Ratchet.

 

He meanders into the makeshift medbay, and gets shoved onto one of the slabs abruptly, stunned for a moment. Ratchet leans over him, wiggling the device a bit. He seems pleased, even if he doesn’t facially show it. 

 

Skyslayer inwardly wonders how he’s getting the sense of happiness with no expression on the medic’s faceplates, but then he notices. His antenna is perked up, chest and shoulder armor lifted subtly.

 

So, he still had a lot to pick up on with this new body language. How much had he been telegraphing without realizing? The thought is interrupted when he’s shoved flat from his half-upright position, and he looks confused and offended toward Ratchet.

 

“Just stay put,” he orders, and the bomber growls in disapproval. “Hush. I won’t go picking at your mechanisms, I just want to scan your chest and head.”

 

“Why?” he demands.

 

“You seemed to struggle with talking, and clearly it’s not your processor, despite what the Decepticons may think.”

 

“...How’d you know about that?”

 

“Most of them are terribly arrogant. It’s in line with them.” He comes back, scanning across Skyslayer’s upper torso. “Hmm. You  _ seem _ perfectly healthy. Maybe a bit of damage to your vocoder system. It would be a complex, but brief operation to repair it.” Something catches his eyes though, and he frowns.

 

“What?” Skyslayer croaks, the news making him less-than-keen on talking much.

 

“You’re…  _ missing _ a piece. And I can’t replace it without a copy of a blueprint. We don’t have one, but I have a feeling I know who does.”

 

“Knockout.”

 

“Frankly, it would surprise me if he had it. The Decepticons keep most valuable data like that locked on a need-only basis. But… I think I can help you steal it.” There was a crafty little gleam in Ratchet’s eyes, and Skyslayer sat up attentively.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit shorter than the previous. whoopsie! blame my weird writing breaks. :P
> 
> here comes big spicy :3c

“What do you  _ mean _ he’s coming back?” Starscream narrows his eyes at Soundwave, who simply continues tracking the rogue. He was coming up on the  _ Nemesis _ quite alarmingly fast. 

 

“Mm,” Knockout starts, tapping his chin. “I suppose we should have a little greeting party.”

 

“I’ll be coming with you and Breakdown. Round up some Vehicons.” he turns, folding his hands at his back, frowning as he walks away, heading up.

 

They meet on the uppermost deck, watching the bomber swing into a tidy landing.

 

“Why are you here?” Starscream demands. Skyslayer looks to him with a lazy flick of his ruddy eyes, stalking closer. He leans down to the small mech, all the way to his eye level.

 

“Are you the head of this operation?” He rumbles, calmly. Starscream looks taken aback briefly before fluffing up, placing a clawed hand at his chest pridefully.

 

“Of course I am, you-“ His insult is silenced at a solid backhanded blow, and he looks  _ shocked.  _ “Wh-h-HOW  _ DARE _ YOU?!” He shrieked, only to be lifted clear off the ground. The bomber has his wings in one fist, and he leans in, a mechanical rumbling starting somewhere in the bulk of his chest. Starscream predictably cowed, arms—and talons—coming up defensively.

 

“I like you better when you’re quiet,” he all-but-snarled, and tossed the seeker aside as if he were just an oversized paperweight. Starscream stammered and spluttered on the ground, struggling before getting up, wings tucked fearfully as he stared at the back of the huge mech.

 

“Sh- _ shoot him!!” _ he cried, gesturing and looking to Knockout and Breakdown. Knockout shook his head staunchly, but Breakdown seemed  _ unsure. _ Skyslayer paused, turning and looking from Starscream to the others. None of the Vehicons seemed too keen on following the seeker’s orders.

 

“Scared, Breakdown?” He asks, turning to face the blue mech properly, splaying his hands out and tilting his head. “I don’t bite,” he soothed, but retracted his blunt, muzzle-like faceguard, baring rows of deadly looking teeth. “Too hard.” He grinned, bringing a hand up to taunt the con.

 

Breakdown predictably seethes at the gestures, yellow eyes filling with rage. He finally roars, charging the bomber with reckless abandon, hammer at the ready. It slams down with an earthshaking sound against heavy plating, but Breakdown is soon staring down the glowing red barrel of Skyslayer’s shotgun.

 

“Oh dear,” he sighs, eyes rolling around melodramatically. “Seems I’ve already got you outsmarted. Don’t think it takes much, though.” He chuckles, and aims the cannon downward, firing once and watching Breakdown collapse, hissing obscenities and struggling to think past the agony of having his leg blown open.

 

Knockout stifles a cry, but rushes in to help his partner, being slammed and pinned back by a massive hand. He stares up at the rogue, seeing nothing but blazing hatred behind that visor. He squirms, eyes getting wide as he stutters something out.

 

“Where’s the real leader of the Decepticons?” Skyslayer asks, tone full of false calm. Knockout simply locks up, eyes wrenching shut as he curls in, going silent. He growls and shoves the medic aside, turning his attention back to Starscream, who’s just gotten himself up on his feet.

 

He dusts himself off and turns, only to squawk in alarm at his sudden proximity, reflexively raking his claws in a swipe. Fresh energon wept from the wounds. His gaze simply hardened, ignoring the injuries.

 

“Where are they?”

 

“Uh, well—“

 

“STAAARSCREEEAM!” The seeker flinches bodily, and even Skyslayer looks concerned for half a beat, turning warily.

 

None other than Megatron himself is standing there, cannon level with the bomber.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“Our newest addition, milord,” Starscream reported, fawning before the massive mech.

 

“Addition?” He growled a little, pulling Skyslayer up with no small amount of force and leaning in to examine the bomber. He’d clamped his faceplates shut again, leaving just his red eyes—and his claw marks—visible. “Interesting. I see no shields on him.” His eyes flicked down. Strange red symbols were painted onto his wings.

 

He grabs him by the collar, pinning him down easily. He tugs on one wing, feeling along the back edge and tilting the appendage to the light. Skyslayer gasps deeply, eyes blowing wide and bright at the sudden flood of sensation. He writhes in Megatron’s grasp, flexing the wing to try and yank it away.

 

Claws dig in, and he freezes, vents in high gear. Megatron gives a curious little hum, prodding at one of his sensors. He cringes, hiss escaping him as he yanks his wing again, trying to free it.

 

“Fascinating. I’ve never had a  _ bomber _ to work with.” He’s smirking, and Skyslayer suddenly thrashes, kicking the Decepticon off himself and squirming to his hands and knees. He clamps his wings close, sensors still trilling from the invasion. Megatron is quick though, certainly as quick as some of the demons he’s faced, and slams him against the nearby wall. He winces hard, feeling the way something wrenches painfully in the base of a wing.

 

“I’m not working for you,” he snaps, and tries to call forth his saw. Megatron pins his arm up though, rendering the weapon little more than useless.

 

“Oh, but you are mistaken. This is no choice.”

 

—

 

Knockout doesn’t talk to him as he works on his wing. Frankly, he seems sullen or something, and it makes it more of a burden to talk than to just let the doctor work. Eventually the persistent, pulling ache in the innards of his wing mechanisms fades, and Knockout seals him back up, examining his handiwork for flaws.

 

“Thank you,” he grunts, wiggling the appendage a bit to test its range of motion. A bit stiff.

 

“Be gentle with it,” the mech warned, but that was all. He dismissed Skyslayer from the bay with a little flick of his claws as he went to his console.

 

The bomber walked out, earning a dirty look from Breakdown as he limped past. He narrowed his eyes in response, fluffing himself up a bit. He wandered off to the bridge, passing Starscream as well, who nearly flinched upon seeing him. The seeker just returned to his normal posturings after the brief spook, glaring a little as if to remedy the lapse.

 

It was half-amusing seeing the scrawny little jet try to intimidate him by sticking his wings up more, standing straight and giving him this stupid look. Skyslayer just walks on past him, frowning as he comes up on Megatron.

 

“Ah. The new addition.” He looks over to him. “I told you to get your faceplate treated as well as your wing.” He just shrugs, looking away toward Soundwave.

 

“I’ve had worse,” he replies, flat. Still, he self-consciously runs his clawtips across the edges of the wounds. They don’t hurt. He glances at his hand though, seeing glowing blue across a couple of the digits.

 

“You may have had worse,” Megatron concedes, “but an order is an order. I suggest you return to Knockout before my patience runs thin.” He scowls a little, but turns, slinking off.

 

He detours off to walk down a rather nondescript hall, opposite of the medbay. He examines the still-glowing blue on his fingers, slowing almost to a pause as he tilts his hand curiously. Soft footsteps pull his attention back up, and he’s faced down by Soundwave.

 

One slender arm lifts, and he points behind Skyslayer, watching him silently as ever.

 

“It’s not that bad,” he huffs. “Blood doesn’t scare me.” Soundwave doesn’t budge, even tilting his head slightly in emphasis. “You aren’t making me go back.” Soundwave’s arm drops, and his screen fills with a map of the deck. He puts a dot at the medbay doors, and even pings Knockout.

 

Skyslayer watches him for a long time, even as Breakdown shows up to drag the bomber off. He simply wipes his screen, turning to walk away.

 

So much for reciprocated feelings, then.

 

He swats Breakdown’s hand off himself, growling in warning and stalking off toward the bay. He can’t stop himself from letting his wings droop out of a mixture of sadness and frustration.

 

Soundwave  _ helped  _ him. Soundwave had even put up with his poorly displayed affection. So why was he doing  _ this? _ He shoves the turmoil away, stepping into the bay. 

 

“Back again so soon?” Knockout asked, apparently feeling better from his moment of reprieve away from the bomber. He simply grunted, gesturing to his ripped-up faceplates. Knockout chuckles, tipping his head this-way and that to examine him. “You look rugged like that. I’m not one for scars, but… you don’t look half-bad with them.”

 

“I don’t even want to be here,” he groans, annoyed still. “They’re not going to kill me.”

 

“Maybe not,” Knockout concedes. “But you wouldn’t be here unless Soundwave mentioned Megatron’s orders.” He chuckled again, pushing Skyslayer flat on the slab to start working. “If you’re so insistent on leaving them be, I’ll just clean and seal the important parts, hem things up a little. You’ll have your battle scars.” He sets to work, and Skyslayer closes his eyes.

 

Ratchet’s hands were less exact, but still precise. And  _ far _ more gentle. He thinks back to when the Autobot medic had set his hand gently on his shoulder, and longed for another soft, friendly touch like that. It’d been so  _ long _ since he’d felt anything soft or gentle. He doesn’t let himself show it, but starts to formulate a plan.

 

The original plan had been: he comes in, finds the leader of the ‘cons, and grabs the necessary blueprints before making a mad dash back. Things had gone south the second Megatron actually showed up. His new plan involved playing nice a while, keeping Soundwave out of his business, and eventually stealing the blueprints right out from under the Decepticons’ collective noses.

 

Ah, but stealth and deception were never his fortes. He used a hunting shotgun and  _ chainsaw _ and the biggest damned gun humanity had cooked up. So a smash and grab would be… better suited to him. He thought a moment more; why would only Megatron have these plans? It didn’t make sense. Maybe Knockout had them and Ratchet simply hadn’t known.

 

He decides to ask.

 

“Knockout. When I was at the Autobots’ base, their medic scanned me and said I was missing a piece.”

 

“He scanned you?” Knockout asked, eyes narrowing.

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s kind of repulsive, but… I can double check. I hadn’t seen anything wrong before.” He finishes patching his face up, brushing his thumb across the rather pretty looking scars, then backing off.

 

His console lights up, Skyslayer looking to it with his best bored expression.The scans come up, analyzing his throat. A piece comes on screen, tiny and delicate, and Knockout grumbles a little.

 

“Ugh. He’s right.” He looks back to Skyslayer, obviously thinking about how to dumb it down.

 

“I don’t need to know what it’s called,” he said, before the medic could speak. “I just wanted to confirm it was missing.” He’s committed the screen to memory, to decipher later, away from Soundwave’s near-omniscience. He’d just need to go on a mission.

 

This took out the  _ grab _ from smash-and-grab, but he’d still knock a few heads if he needed. Frankly, this was going better than he’d thought; outsmarting these assholes was way easier than he’d predicted. Probably because they thought he was just a big dumb bomber.

 

“Thank you,” he offers to Knockout, faking his sincerity as he got up and walked out. He meandered back to the bridge, taking his sweet time. “Megatron,” he starts, getting a narrow-eyed look. “I’d like a mission.”

 

“I think not,” he says simply.

 

“...What?” Asking permission to go and cause havoc was enough, but being  _ denied? _ He was tempted to just get up and leave anyway.

 

“I said no, Skyslayer. The last time you did, you wandered off to fraternize with the enemy.”

 

“So you’re putting me on… on  _ house arrest?!” _ He’s incredulous.

 

“I suppose you could call it that.” He looks away. “You won’t be leaving the Nemesis until I’m sure you’re loyal.”

 

“So, never. I already told you I’m-“

 

“Oh, you’ll get over that,” Megatron chuckles. Skyslayer kind of eyes him, thinking he looks—well, rather like a chromed hellrazer. The same method of attack would probably work on him.

 

The prospect of attacking Megatron is  _ very  _ appealing, and the bridge is empty aside from the typical handful of vehicons. They wouldn’t try anything;  _ especially _ if he was winning.

 

Megatron isn’t even paying attention to him now, and he’s standing at his unarmed side. It’s all too easy. All it takes is a quick grab and twist, and the warlord is flat on his back, looking—for want of a better term— _ shocked.  _ He’s still damn fast, getting up and swiping at the bomber, who ducks it and grabs him round the middle, hefting hard and dropping back.

 

Megatron makes a very undignified  _ squawk _ at the impact, stumbling back to his feet. The vehicons are all whispering to each other now, stunned by the display of uncouth aggression toward their leader.

 

If Skyslayer was being honest with himself, the simple act of engaging someone in close combat felt  _ pretty damn good.  _ Seeing what could safely be called his enemy looking so stunned was just icing on the cake.

 

Another wild swipe toward him pulls him out of his brief distraction, and he inwardly scolds himself.  _ Don’t take your focus off him, _ he orders himself. He allows a hand to grip his shoulder, since it allowed him easy access to grab the attached wrist and twist, pulling Megatron over his back and slamming him into the nearest wall.

 

He groans, slumping and not getting back up. How many hits to the head and torso had that been, three? Strange. He expected more out of such a mech. Of course, it’s not enough to keep him down for good. He rolls onto his back, lunging at the bomber. He’s accurate, for having taken hits to the head at all, and he nearly grabs Skyslayer. He feels talons scrape along the armor of his side. It takes some quick footwork, but he trips the warlord mid-lunge.

 

Megatron catches himself and would be back to his feet if the bomber hadn’t pounced to straddle his back, slamming his face into the ground again. That few seconds of daze is all he needs to stand, slamming a foot down and putting the Decepticon leader out for the count. This time, he grabs the back of that chromey collar, lifting him to double-check. He’s  _ definitely _ out now, or at least too hard-hit to do much of anything, judging by the way his eyes seem to roll around, unseeing.

 

There’s a shriek, though, and that’s all the warning he gets before he gets hit dead in the chest by a flying kick by one  _ angry _ little seeker. He’s knocked back, wings scraping the ground and making him wince.

 

Instinct and reflex push him to his feet, and he blocks a jab thrown at his neck. Starscream shifts his arm, firing almost point-blank. The shot burns, but it just angers him more. He swipes at the seeker with just his talons, retracting his faceguard in the same gesture. He snarls eagerly as Starscream squeals, stumbling back.

 

Suddenly, Starscream is getting away. He realizes he’s being held, and roars, struggling violently. It does nothing, and Starscream laughs shrilly.

 

“Ah! Lord Megatron! I owe you my spark!”

 

“Pay me back later,” the warlord growls, tightening his grip on the crazed Skyslayer. The bomber thrashes, straining against the underarm hold.

 

“Let me go!”

 

“I think not.” He shifts, slamming him into the nearest wall, reaching into the gap between his armor and wing and pinching something that makes him feel half-numb. He struggles, but doesn’t manage to be much of a threat anymore. Megatron orders some Vehicons to take him out and get rid of him—at least, that’s what it sounds like.

 

“So eager to keep me, and now you can’t get rid of me fast enough. Make up your mind!” The Vehicons pause, looking to Megatron unsurely. He just laughs.

 

“I’m not getting rid of you, you idiot.” He waves them off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is SO gay. so, so _so_ gay. i'm sorry.
> 
>  
> 
> (not really)

MECH pulls up in a pair of hefty looking trucks, high-beams illuminating a strangely shaped structure at the edge of the woods.

 

“Here it is,” a tech reports, looking up from his computer. “The distress signal.”

 

“Let’s have a little look-see, shall we?” Silas asks, climbing out of the vehicle. He clicks his flashlight on, joining the riot of light.

 

“It’s… unaffiliated, sir. No badges or defining markings,” one of the troopers calls, examining the lump from a different angle. There’s the sound of an engine turning over, choking for a few seconds before snarling to life. It quiets to a steady, low rumble that dampens even further. Now it’s more a sensation than noise.

 

“What… where am I? Megatron?” He sits up, going to push himself into standing only to find cuffs clamped over his wrists. He growls, vents expelling a burst of air and nearly knocking a trio of techs over. One yelps at the force. That gets his attention, and he twists to see just who made that noise.

 

There’s the click of rifles, and he forces himself to his feet, growling in warning.

 

“Stand down, gentlemen.” His eyes fix on the voice, and he feels his wings prick. “Come with us.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I believe that you can help us. In a way that only you can.” He relaxed on his hair trigger  _ just slightly. _ Usually, when someone said that, it was referring to demons. It’d be good to take out some trash.

 

“Fine. I’ll come. If you uncuff me.”

 

“I believe we can arrange that.” He gestures one of the nervous little techs forward, command in his movement. Skyslayer lowers himself, settling on one knee and setting his knuckles to the ground.

 

He’d never thought he’d ever think humans were too small.

 

—

 

He cruised along, keeping the radio signal within range as he soared in the belly of rain clouds. Rain felt good, warm and pelting against his altmode.

 

“Our base doesn’t have a landing strip,” the leader—Silas—said in his comm. He simply chuckled, adjusting his trajectory in a gentle downturn.

 

“I don’t need a runway.”

 

“Right.” Silas laughed mildly. “We’re nearly there.”

 

“I’ve got a question. Are the humans around here  _ that _ oblivious to  _ not _ notice a historical bomber flying around?” No response. He closes the line, thinking a moment before going into a steeper dive.

 

One midair shift and downright  _ elegant  _ landing later, and he’s standing in a large parking lot of some sort. He spots choppers nearby. A worn sign informs him that this is—or rather,  _ was— _ an airbase. Fitting. He walks past a hangar, glancing around for the humans that had lead him here.

 

He hears trucks, and just to be safe, he moves closer to the hangar, transforming again and quieting his engines to listen. Rain  _ plunk-plinks _ off his chassis and wings, and he hears doors open and close, voices going back and forth.

 

“He last radioed us with some inane question, sir.”

 

“And he cut the line after?”

 

“Yes.” Silas growls something inaudible over the rain, then orders a couple troopers to spread out and look for him.

 

So their intentions were less than pleasant. He could deal with that. If it turned to blows, he could explain it away to the Autobots.

 

Speaking of— _ ping.  _ Ratchet just asked him what he was doing in human airspace. Apparently, they didn’t like that.

 

_ Pong,  _ he thinks, pulling the images from his memory and sending it back over the encrypted channel. Hopefully it would be enough. His little stunt with Megatron would make anything other than the most covert ops impossible. He didn’t even trust himself to talk right now, with human footsteps growing so dangerously close, so he tacked on a quick textcomm.  _ Busy with hostiles. Talk later. _

 

One of the troopers is looking  _ very  _ hard at him, glancing toward his wings.  _ Shit. Slayer’s mark. _ He inwardly kicks himself, but tenses up a little.

 

“Hey! We need a tech over here-“

 

He shifts out, crouched low in the shadow of the hangar. The trooper fumbles his rifle, and Skyslayer responds by arming his saw, choosing to not start it just yet. Look at him, being all stealthy. He puts a claw to his mouthpiece, staring the human down. The threat is clear.

 

“Uh, n-never mind that!” The trooper calls, and he quietly slinks off the back way. He gets only a tiny distance before a spotlight snaps on him, and Silas calls out.

 

“I don’t think so. Stand down or we will use force.”

 

He pauses, thinks about all the times he was locked alone in Hell, and puts the saw away. He turns to where Silas is, going over the plan in his head.

 

“Good,” the human says blithely, completely unaware.

 

“You get ten seconds’ head start,” he suddenly retorts, and then chuckles, summoning up the grenade launcher and planting his feet. “Starting now.”

 

“What?”

 

“Eight… seven… six,” is all he replies with. Silas’ chopper takes off, wisely. It hangs nearby, but he doesn’t care.

 

Prime was  _ so _ going to have his goat after this.

 

—

 

“You  _ WHAT?!” _ Ratchet hollers.

 

Skyslayer flinches at the volume, grumbling something noncommittal. He wipes more plating clean, only to have the rag snatched. Ratchet is  _ there,  _ and he prickles a little.

 

“You  _ can’t _ kill humans.”

 

“I can, and I did,” he snaps. They stare each other down a while.

 

“That is the sole thing separating us from the evil of the Decepticons. The care for other sentient life.”

 

“Two things, doc,” he growls, pleased at the offended look he received, “one, I have my own moral code about humanity. I was a part of it, at one point. These guys may as well have had horns and slung fireballs. Two, you forget one very important fact:  _ I’m still not part of your war!” _ He roars the last bit, feeling slightly better after. Having no outlet for his rage was getting hard.

 

Ratchet stares at him, long and hard, and sighs softly, almost disappointed as he turns back his console.

 

“Get out,” he says quietly. That makes Skyslayer freeze.

 

“What?”

 

“I said get out. If you’re not here to help or even  _ cooperate, _ get out. We don’t need another mouth to feed. Our energon supply is already dwindling.” He looks over his shoulder, something like hurt in the blue of his eyes. “We don’t need you.”

 

—

 

Megatron watches Soundwave’s bounced feed with a level gaze.

 

“Something happened,” he says. “This is the second time he’s returned. There is a reason he keeps coming back.”

 

“The Autobots may not have that piece his voicebox is missing. It may be desperation,” Knockout muses aloud.

 

“No. I’ve seen war heroes rather rust in silence rather than change sides.” He gives a mild, amused trilling. “Maybe he enjoyed our little scuffle.”

 

“He does seem the… unnecessarily violent type.”

 

“The blood of warriors, of  _ gladiators _ runs in his veins. His eagerness is all too telling.” Megatron looks down to Knockout with just his eyes. “His violence is a brand I have seen before. Performed before.” He looks back to the video feed. “I suspect he’s coming back because of the limits Autobots so stringently uphold.”

 

“But would that bring him over? You said yourself—“

 

“His alliance is more fluid than we previously thought. He may not  _ care _ about the labels as much as a traditional Cybertronian. However… I believe I may have a way to anchor his power firmly with us.”

 

—

 

He lands, shifting out and almost cursing aloud when Vehicons turn, arming themselves. He mirrors them, but falters just slightly when Megatron himself treads out, steps casual.

 

“Skyslayer.”

 

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” His aim firms up again.

 

“Ahh, but it slides out so easily, doesn’t it? An elegant yet fittingly aggressive name for a bomber.” He waves slightly, the Vehicons confusedly standing down. “I actually wanted to speak to you personally.” He watches the guns, not out of fear, but a cool sort of alertness. He lowers them, slowly at first, but then simply retracts them.

 

“So get talking.”

 

“You have quite the temper, don’t you? A warrior after my own spark.” He grins. “The  _ Nemesis _ is no place for such a conversation. Come. Fly with me.” He walks past, and Skyslayer eyes the Vehicons one last time. They all shrug at him—none of them know any more than he does.

 

He turns, following the quick pace Megatron takes before leaping to transform and take off.

 

He trails the strange craft, pouring power into his four engines to keep up with him.

 

“What’s with the rush?”

 

“The sooner the better,” he cryptically replies. Skyslayer is taken aback—since when is  _ Megatron _ the cryptic type?

 

They don’t take long to arrive, Skyslayer circling once even after the warlord had already landed. A clearing, inset against a cliff side. It looks like a natural arena, and he gets a nagging suspicion that this  _ conversation  _ wasn’t going to involve the trading of words.

 

He lands with a thud, shaking out his wings a bit. The rain from last night was making them feel funny, but a good flick dissipated the feeling.

 

“I enjoy seeing the way earthly fliers move,” Megatron says, eyes tracing over his wings with some note of appreciation. He feels a little self-conscious and tucks them back.

 

“So, about this conversation,” he says, changing topics. Megatron hums, a soft internal noise that almost sounds musical.

 

“Soundwave played me footage of your combat patterns. I see a gladiator’s spirit in you. Even that event—with the creatures—you moved with a practiced grace.” He tilts his head slightly, approaching the bomber. “I want to see you in action properly. A spar would do us both good.” He narrows his eyes, and Megatron simply chuckles. A languid smirk crawls up his mouth, the jagged line of his teeth just  _ barely  _ visible. “Trust me. I know contained frustration when I see it. So.” He raises a hand, palm-up, and curls his claws once in an encouraging little taunt. “Come at me.”

 

He considers it, the almost lazy posture of the warlord before him. Considers the way he caught Megatron off-guard last time, how easily he fell into that mindset.

 

“No.” He turns away, glancing around to see how quickly he could leave.

 

“No?” Megatron sounds genuinely surprised. He glances over his shoulder.

 

“I said no.” He resumes looking for the path of least resistance. Leaves or pine needles in his propellers and intakes would be no good. He stubbornly shoves away the rising eagerness boiling in his chest. He wouldn’t give the chrome asshole the satisfaction.

 

“You clearly crave close combat, I offer it, and you…  _ deny?”  _ Hearing him so genuinely confused was irking him.

 

“Shut up,” he snaps. Megatron’s eyes narrow.

 

“I was willing to give you a loose leash, as the humans say. Clearly, you are not as accepting of that as I had hoped.” He finds his flight path, only to be forcibly turned, talons gripping his shoulder just a shade below painful. Megatron’s calm expression has hardened. “I gave you many chances, let things slide in your favor. You are simply ungrateful.”

 

“Ungrateful as only a killer can be,” he responds, forcing on his own levelheaded facade. “I appreciate your offer. But I’m not going to accept it.” He pries the hand off himself, shoving it back toward its owner.

 

“And why is that? Are you afraid of hurting me?” Something between a scoff and snort escapes Megatron.

 

“I’m just not interested.” It’s a lie, one that Megatron sees through instantly.

 

“Skyslayer, I may just be an old gladiator, but I am no fool. There’s something else.”

 

“I can’t kill you,” he blurts out, wanting to get him off his back. Megatron’s eyes brighten slightly, then dim in recognition.

 

“You don’t feel satisfied unless you draw energon.”

 

“Something like that.” This talking, this beating-around-the-bush, was only making him more eager to leave and try to avoid everyone. Oh, how he longed to turn a Baron’s torso into paste with a well-placed shot. Or shatter an Imp’s skull against his knee.

 

“Then hit me. It’ll give Knockout something to do.” It draws him out of his strangely fond introspection, and he looks to Megatron again.

 

“Didn’t I just—“ Megatron interrupts his protest with a lazy swipe of his claws, grazing across his chest. He gasps at the flood of energy that hits him, and lunges.

 

If fighting Megatron was fun when he was unprepared, it was downright  _ pleasurable _ when he was ready. They traded blocks and blows just as fluidly as ever. Landing hits scratched an itch he hadn’t fully acknowledged.

 

Usually, he preferred a gun between him and whatever he was engaged with; it allowed him a false sense of control over his infamous rage. But now, with nothing to force him to think tactically, he flew into a berserk.

 

Megatron seemed  _ pleased _ by the near-ferality of his attacks. Each hit made him grin, each dangerous near miss of Skyslayer’s talons made him laugh. Seeing his bomber loose that angry, vengeful energy was making him quite happy.

 

“Good! Let me see how you  _ slaughter _ your foes!” He crowed, laughing again as claws raked jagged lines across the body of his fusion cannon.

 

Skyslayer felt a thing he hadn’t in millennia.  _ Exhaustion. _ He slowed, faltering in one of his ruthless, blindly violent assaults. After one last swipe, he pauses, heat shimmering off his chassis. His engines roar in his ears as they chewed energon and air in their rattling, heavy way.

 

Megatron had stopped returning blows about halfway in, and he bore an impressive array of marks and scratches as a result. He stays back, allowing the bomber to try and catch his breath.

 

The sun’s started to sink behind the cliff, and the cooler air felt good as he dragged as much as he could into his frame. A hand settles at the base of one of his wings, rubbing just the smallest amount.

 

“You’re calmer now,” the warlord observes. He receives a grunt in response. It was always easier to think after he’d burned through energy like that. He starts to sink to his knees, almost happy that Megatron joined him kneeling on the grass. The hand never leaves his back, and he feels a thumb soothingly stroke the edge of an aileron. He can’t manage a purr, not with his system so taxed. But, he doesn’t move away from it.

 

He muses how strange it is, all but being pet by such a savage mech. Although, they both could be described as  _ savage, _ just in different ways. He doesn’t mind the touch—in fact, it’s relaxing. The same way Ratchet’s hand settled on his shoulder had been. A light tug made him look up.

 

“Come on. Let’s fly back.” He offers a hand, Skyslayer taking it and getting to his feet. He’s not sure if that clawed hand held his for longer than necessary, or if he was just seeing things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next stop: HELL!
> 
> LITERALLY! :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just pointing at megatron and going "DUDE that's gay" at this point.
> 
> also doom-standard gore abound! pls b careful >_o !
> 
> edit: OOPS

Skyslayer has wandered off to rest a while, so Megatron perched atop his throne, having Soundwave put the footage of their spar up. Something was nagging him about the way he'd fought.

 

There was no edge of desperation; exactly as he’d expected. His bomber was completely in control even despite the outward appearance of blind rage. But his attacks, fast as they were, were so _decisive._ As if he trusted each attack would land, that they would finish things in his favor. There was no _flair._

 

He was undoubtedly a pit fighter of sorts, but not one that traded blows in front of an audience. Not one that had to impress or die.

 

Megatron gives a little _hmm_ in the back of his vocoder, lacing his fingers together and resting his faceplate against them lightly, observing further.

 

It was a powerful trade of efficiency over intimidation. He let his actions—namely speed—speak over his posturing. Megatron allowed himself a mild chuckle, still enjoying how damned _fast_ he was. No desperation, but a sense of urgency. As if one slip up meant death.

 

His combat pattern was so fascinating. He tended to use upper body more than anything, but there was the occasional deadly kick or high knee that revealed a delightful all-over strength. There was an awkwardness about his claws, as if he wasn’t used to their presence.

 

He’d have to ask about that. He relaxed back, running the tips of his own claws across the gouges dug into his fusion cannon. Even despite the awkwardness, he wielded them as well as he did anything else.

 

The footage ended, and Megatron curtly nodded to his Communications Officer, who tipped his helm in a bow, slipping out. Next time Megatron saw Skyslayer, he’d ask all the little questions he’d collected.

 

—

 

Soundwave turns, showing another pulse of that strange energy signature. Megatron looked over, tipping his head and seeming _pleased._

 

“Bring Skyslayer to the bridge. I have a mission.” The spy brought up a small second window, showing the ping confirmation. It took all of five minutes for the bomber to arrive, bright-eyed and eager. “Mmh, right on time. That signature is back.”

 

Skyslayer looks to Soundwave, giving a grunt.

 

“Argent. I can-“

 

“Ah-ah. You aren’t going alone.” Megatron notes the slight grind of mechanisms, an annoyed gritting.

 

“Fine. Who’s the plus-one?” He received a briefly confused look, before the larger mech shook his head slightly.

 

“I will be accompanying you. I would go by myself, but I require your… expertise.” Great; so _he_ was the unwanted addition. Maybe there’d be a chance to duck into a Hell portal and not look back.

 

Although, that spar _had_ been good to him…

 

He shook the thoughts away, and nodded to Megatron. He seemed satisfied by that, and looked to Soundwave. Coordinates rolled up along with a graphic, calculations flitting in a second window. The groundbridge bloomed beside them, and they went through together.

 

—

 

The rip in reality was expanding, crawling open further and further. Megatron looked around, puzzled. The demon compliment here was relatively light, but it was better to kill them all and keep the higher ups in the dark.

 

Something approving meets Skyslayer when he’s done, and he turns, wings lifting slightly in surprise. They were a lot closer together than he expected. He straightens, smoothing down his ruffled appearance, and gestures to the open Hell portal.

 

“The only way to stop these from opening is to go _in_ and destroy anything that could be fueling or building them.”

 

“Hmm. That is a predicament.” His eyes avert, clearly contacting Soundwave on personal comm. A moment later, he nods. “Soundwave confirmed that despite the interference, he should be able to track us and bridge us back into the _Nemesis_ once we complete our task.”

 

“Should and can are two different things,” he muttered, but was already going in.

 

—

 

A short drop later, and the two of them were in Hell. Skyslayer rolls his shoulders languidly, getting a move on as soon as he got his bearings. Megatron trailed him, curious.

 

“What is this place?”

 

“Hell. Essentially, your Pit.”

 

“Interesting… And this is where you forged your glory?”

 

“Yes.” He glanced around, perching at the edge of a cliff they’d come to. A bowl-shaped arena hung below them, suspiciously large and well-designed for his current size. He narrows his eyes, looking to the warlord. “They’re expecting me.”

 

“They are? But how?”

 

“They know I always, inevitably, find my way back. So, they made me a whole new arena.” He gestures down at it.

 

“Arena…” Megatron echoes, looking down to it thoughtfully. “Our origins are far closer than I had initially thought, then.” He chuckles, looking back up to the bomber.

 

“Something like that. Come on.” He hopped, skidding down the curve of the wall and landing neatly. A quick check around revealed one solitary imp, and he readied his grenade launcher, firing a bit ahead of the scrambling little demon. Megatron landed beside him, watching the imp screech a warning before bursting like a microwaved grape. The screech was answered by the cries, howls, and roars of a multitude of other demons.

 

“More?” Megatron questioned calmly.

 

“A lot more.” A metallic scrape, and the warlord was ready. “Some are melee-heavy. Be careful.”

 

“I’ve dealt with worse,” he replies, sounding half-amused.

 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Skyslayer murmurs, letting his own amusement bleed through.

 

A Summoner appears, wailing and beginning the dance.

 

—

 

New demons were rare. Usually, he extinguished a type, only to have it change and raise up again. Some were brought on by experiments, both by humans and the demons themselves. It seemed they were looking to impress, though, and revealed a whole new array of demons.

 

One was like a Revenant, but completely demonic and scaled up considerably. Another was a variant of Pain Elemental he’d never seen before. There were cybernetic demons that moved too quick for his launcher to get a bead, demons that turned invisible for periods, demons who puppetted others.

 

All the while he mentally documented them, noting their strengths and weaknesses, he kept an eye turned over to his partner.

 

Megatron was a _natural_ at this. He danced among the fire, fast and lethal and elegant. His blade shone with the spilt blood of a legion, his claws glittering a psychedelic mix of blue and red. Even his fusion cannon was damn effective, turning Pinkies thrown at him into a puddle with one well-placed shot.

 

On the inverse, Megatron was watching him in the tiny fragments of time in-between attacks.

 

He mentally placed Skyslayer in the not-yet official gap of his command structure. Starscream was effective yet insufferable, and it would be easy to eject him without feeling _too_ sour. Thinking of the bomber at his side, a force to be reckoned with alongside his own power—it pleased him. What pleased him more was seeing the way his saw spat blood and bone fragments and bits of meat in a gory spray of red death.

 

“You certainly take pride in the mess, don’t you?” he asked, charging and firing his cannon into the hideous blue mouth of a flying demon, which promptly exploded, the fusion leaving nothing but ash. Nothing like the sloppy violence of the saw, or that gun.

 

Speaking of, it had just turned a larger one into a foam of pink and red, splattering guts in a long arc.

 

“Always,” came the eventual reply. Megatron simply chuckled lowly, crushing one underfoot and admiring the way blood immediately pooled out. The flow had stymied to a handful, and Skyslayer merrily put them out to pasture.

 

Megatron retracted his armblade, uncaring of the bloody coating, and looked down at the last oozing corpse. Points scattered the hard packed ground, rock shattered and fragmented off where the mixed shot had impacted.

 

“You method is certainly unprecedented.”

 

“The smaller pieces you put ‘em in, the less likely they are to try and get up,” he said simply. “I like how blood looks on you,” he added, and it flew over the warlord’s head as just another comment on strategy against these beasts. That is, until he caught up with it.

 

His eyes got wide, and he looked over, unable to come up with anything to respond with. Skyslayer was distant, clearly scouring the area with both visual and radar to see if anything else was coming.

 

“Anything?” He asks, deflecting the comment.

 

“No. I have a question.” Always so to-the-point. “You’re not in it for the energy, are you?”

 

“...Energy?”

 

“Optimus Prime said you wanted Earth’s energy.”

 

“I… _no._ Primus, no. I was never a part of this war for something so petty.

 

“I started it because I wanted _equality._ Now look at us. We’re equal, alright. Equal in squabbling like two lowly animals over food scraps as our species goes extinct.” Skyslayer is silent for a drawn period.

 

“I’m a Decepticon,” he says.

 

“You ripped the shields off.”

 

“Because I thought you were after energy. I’ve got a personal vendetta against someone like that.” _That_ catches Megatron’s interest, and he trails the bomber as he starts to foray onward.

 

“You don’t seem the type.”

 

“The only reason I’m the _Scourge of Hell_ is because of a personal vendetta. I’m the grudge-keeping sort.” His vocoder fuzzes at that, and he falls silent.

 

“Scourge of Hell…” Megatron muses aloud, giving him a glance once-over again. Many revelations, today.

 

“He would rather drain Hell itself than use something less profitable,” the bomber growls, voice gone coarse and staticky. “I hate him.”

 

“Sounds reasonable.” Skyslayer pauses, looks back at him, and blinks those permanent angled-down optics. He always looked livid. Humans called it _resting bitch face,_ if memory served.

 

“Reasonable—“ he cuts off with a crackle, and violently expels air from his vents, looking miserable after.

 

“Easy.” Megatron set a hand on his shoulder, and watched those eyes. So intense. They dimmed, slightly, and the bomber shook his head.

 

 _I need a break from talking,_ was the clear implication.

 

“When we return to the _Nemesis,”_ Megatron begins, gently, “I’ll have Knockout replace the badges. If that is your wish.” He shrugs, continuing leading them on this little trek. “You don’t have to explain, if you don’t wish. I’m just…” a rumble, amused and soft, bubbles up. “Surprised by your change of spark.”

 

_Ping._

 

Megatron opens the textcomm, reading the message over.

 

// You damn well don’t order me to hold back. Nor do you do anything with Hell. Cause to get along. //

 

Megatron outright laughed at that, grin pervading his features. He didn’t need to respond.

 

—

 

They’d been walking for a good Earthly day, according to their chrono systems, when Skyslayer abruptly halted. Megatron nearly bumped into him, long having fallen into the mindless march.

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

“No.” His vocoder had fizzle-snapped back online about three hours ago, the warlord making a note to send him to Knockout and get it fixed. Maybe kill two birds with one stone.

 

“You stopped.”

 

“I’m picking something up.”

 

“Something?”

 

“Something _s.”_

 

“Mm. You mentioned Hellish artifacts.”

 

“Two. I can’t parse the signature well enough to tell what.”

 

“Come then. Let’s find out.” They started walking again, falling back into companionable silence. Broken vocoder or not, Skyslayer was quieter in speech, keeping what little he did say clipped and to the point.

 

Megatron could appreciate that.

 

The first object of interest they came upon was bizarre. Some construction of mummified ribs and femurs and skulls, jammed together and caked with bloody mud to hold it all. Red energy pierced through a boneforged opening, throwing dancing little beams onto the two. Skyslayer reaches in, grabbing it and ripping it out uncaringly. Thankfully, nothing terrible happens.

 

“Smells like Argent,” the bomber complained, but Megatron grabbed his wrist before he could stuff it away.

 

“It’s a fuel converter. A small one. We used these on dead worlds to make energy usable.” He emphasizes _dead worlds_ slightly, and Skyslayer nods.

 

“I bet I could jury-rig it to pipe Argent into my fuel line.”

 

“You can run off that?”

 

“Could. I don’t know if I can now. This’ll make it possible, or easier. Whichever.” He shrugs.

 

Make that three birds; he added the converter to the growing list of things Skyslayer needed to visit Knockout for. He releases his forearm, and it vanishes from his claws.

 

“Where’s the next one?”

 

“...Further. Way further. We may need to risk a flight.”

 

“If anything goes south, I can still call Soundwave.”

 

“We’ll be fine.” His wings hike slightly, something like offense coloring the fluff of his kibble. He turns then, taking a running jump off a cliff. He banks in a steep turn, and throttles hard. Megatron hums to himself before taking off to follow him.

 

—

 

They hang in the bellies of smoky, ash-laden clouds. The murky, red sky paints even Skyslayer’s drab coloration in deep shadow. More unremarkable, ruddy-brown and black landscape rolls by below them.

 

“I have a question for you.” The bomber didn’t respond, but was clearly listening. “Why is everything red? I see some of the appeal, but… so much.” He tapers off, mumbling half of it. He doubts it’s audible over the hiss of his engines, and the drone of Skyslayer’s propellers.

 

“Human blood is red. It’s supposed to be scary.”

 

“...Oh.”

 

“It doesn’t always work.”

 

“Clearly.” He scoffed lightly, thinking it was absurd. Even with the psychological reason, it seemed to fall so flat. Then again… seeing that Autobot motorcycle, with her crisp blue paint job, made his plating crawl.

 

Maybe he could understand the red, then.

 

“How close are we?”

 

“Close enough to make the walk in under a day’s time. We can get closer, though.”

 

“If I may ask, how do you know where these are anyway? If you're just picking them up via scanning—“

 

“Intuition. I know where the demons like to hide the best treasure.” He nosed down, no longer skimming under the clouds. He kept at a gentle slope, easing himself through the air and eventually shifting to land.

 

It was _cold,_ here, far colder than he expected. Both their chassis _pinged_ and _clinked_ and crackled as they cooled. The air out of their vents came as silky fog.

 

“I was not aware it would drop in temperature like this.”

 

“We’re in another place that Hell swallowed. Sometimes there’s so much left, they keep the original climates. Must’ve been freezing here.”

 

“Oh? Another?”

 

“That arena was in the guts of claimed territory. A demon horde comes in, kills or converts everyone, then absorbs the realm into Hell.” There’s something like blackened amusement. “Since I started on the job, they’ve only captured two.” He starts walking, readying his shotgun in reflex.

 

The area is silent, eerily so, aside from the whistle of chilling wind and their movements. A mechanical whirring caught the warlord’s attention, and he came over to investigate. A small object had been revealed from some sort of specialized case, and Skyslayer delicately plucked it up with his claw tips.

 

“I assume that’s some human form of collecting the Argent?”

 

“Yes. I’ll take it back as a test dose.” He puts it away as well, straightening to look around. He seemed to be on high alert, looking around slowly and keeping his response ready. “We can go.” Something caught his attention though, but he remained steadfast.

 

 _Soundwave. Are there other signatures here that he could be picking up on?_ Megatron comms the spy. His spark skips when he sees the affirmation, along with a mark on his HUD.

 

“Skyslayer,” he says aloud. “Soundwave told me there’s another signature of note.”

 

“I’ll get it, you stay here to ensure the groundbridge lock is accurate.” Suddenly he was _gone,_ without even allowing Megatron to protest. Soundwave confirmed the lock-on, opening the bridge only once he’d noted Skyslayer’s signature beside his master again. The other end of it opens onto the _Nemesis,_ but suddenly there’s a demonic wail.

 

 _Thousands_ pour out, screeching and chittering and roaring as they converged to storm the groundbridge. Slayer shoved the old warlord through, turning and firing blind to hold them off as he backpedals through the strained wormhole.

  
“Next time, I go _alone._ ”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayy, here it is, final chap!
> 
> i'm sitting on another fic (continuation of this), but i'm not telling anything about it until i'm done ;)

“Move your big dumb afts!” Knockout barked to a clump of drones. They obediently shuffled out of his way, but the gossiping continued. It sounded like a gaggle of damned Seekers. He grumbles in irritation, looking back up only to hear himself go silent. Skyslayer is standing idly, toying with one of the new finds from Hell.

 

A huge, intimidating, red blade that crackled slightly, glyphs imprinted in tidy rows down the length. It had a curved, pickaxe-like shape on the end, but it reformed into a simpler blade before their eyes. Knockout hurried closer, eyes bugged wide.

 

“What _is_ that?”

 

“The Crucible.”

 

“Can I see?” He all but begged, holding his hands up flat. The blade deactivates, fizzling away with tiny forks of red lightning.

 

“Break it and you’re toast.”

 

“Toast?” Knockout asks, but stares reverently at the hilt placed in his waiting hands. The weird symbol on the bomber’s wings was etched into the side, and it was spiked and deadly looking all over. He shifted it off to the side, clear of everyone, and tried to turn it on. Nothing. Even a quick scan said it was little more interesting than a stone.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Trying to figure out why it’s not doing anything.” He shook it lightly, frowning at the apparent dud. “I didn’t even do anything to it to break it.” Bigger talons than his plucked it away, and with a little jerk, it came back to life, blade blooming with a dazzling flash.

 

“It _is_ mine,” he says, as if that were enough answer. Knockout pouts at him. He snaps the again-silent hilt to a clamp on his hip, then turns to walk off. “Don’t be too sad about it Doc.”

 

He arrives at the bridge; Megatron had something urgent for him. The warlord turns, eyes narrowing the slightest bit.

 

“Good. You may know that Starscream has deserted.”

 

“...I didn’t. But continue.”

 

“Unfortunately, one of our ranks was lost due to his negligence, not long before you were retrieved. However.” Megatron looks back out. “We have found another. I have a proposition for you, in the wake of this news.”

 

“And what would that be?” He has a suspicion he knows. He doesn’t much like it.

 

“I offer you position as my Second in Command.” He goes to protest, only for a large hand to stop him. “I don’t want your answer now. I will allow you a taste; I have a mission I need you to oversee. We will both see how you suit the position.”

 

Skyslayer wants to ask about what he meant by that, but squelches the question when Soundwave steps up. Nothing from the spy; their past was irrelevant in light of the mission. He wants to grump, but Megatron has already turned away, a groundbridge opening to send them on their way.

 

—

 

Soundwave watches him. He can feel that invisible gaze weighing on him, boring into his back. His kibble prickles slightly, but he does nothing to dissuade the spy. It was better for his health.

 

“So what is this mission, exactly? I wasn’t even briefed.” He reigns his anger back, barely. Soundwave pulls the objective up—pretty standard scout job. Scouting? For them? Soundwave coming made some amount of sense, but even _then._

 

He squints, disbelieving, but grunts and turns. At least the route was long enough flight was the better option; Soundwave dutifully follows him into the air. They pick up Vehicon signals, sending the standard warning ping long before cruising over the encampment.

 

All of halfway through, Skyslayer is running the bare minimum, letting his mind wander, enjoying the wind rushing around him. Soundwave trailed a good distance behind. It was a security thing—humans would get _quite_ suspicious if they saw a seventy-year-old war bomber being followed by a spy drone. Hell, they’d get suspicious about the bomber regardless.

 

As was now being exemplified.

 

“Unknown Flying Fortress, you are in non-recreational airspace. State your business.” Great. Human military.

 

“Test run,” he replied, flatly. Shockingly, they bought it.

 

“I haven’t even _seen_ one of those in thirty years,” someone mumbles, fuzzed by apparent distance from the mic. Skyslayer wants to scoff. “Strange choice to take for a test. Send your credentials and carry on.”

 

Soundwave pings him—he forged the digital documents already. Crisis averted, then. They exit the range of the control tower, and he loosens slightly. Only slightly. Suddenly, he remembers he’s being watched. What would Megatron think of that little stunt? Would he be impressed by the quick thinking, or annoyed that he even got close enough to humans for them to notice?

 

He finds himself winding tight again, but doesn’t bother stopping or reversing it. He just continues cruising in tense silence, Soundwave hanging over his conscious like a vulture. Despite it all, he wants to go back to Hell. It didn’t have creepy spies that could sniff out a lie from nothing but your blink rate. It also didn’t make him think about _rank,_ of all things. Rank was damn irrelevant.

 

It all irks him.

 

“Relax, Skyslayer,” Megatron says, jolting him painfully out of his reverie. “Soundwave reports that you look ready to pop your rivets.” He bites back the scathing remark boiling in his vocoder, and just keeps his flight pattern level. “I was being serious,” the warlord says, a little sternly.

 

He’s so tempted to just swap modes and land right there and scare off the spy for a moment of alone. It wouldn’t be much better, though.

 

“Get off my ass,” he finally grumbles, no real venom behind the words. Better to play it safe around an annoyed Megatron. Silence, and he feels dread crawl cold in his fuel lines.

 

Soundwave peels off, surprising him. No signal to follow or not, so he does—keeping his distance. There’s a plateau of sandstone that they land on, Soundwave looking to him with that inscrutable mask. Something pulls at his attention, though, and he looks away from the spy.

 

They were in the general region of the human town the Autobots were so uptight about. He feels something flavored like guilt, some kind of regret over the way he and Ratchet parted. The medic had tried to care for him, and he’d done… _that._

 

A flash, unnatural and white, flicks in the corner of his eye, and he all but _snarls._ Of course they would plant regret in him, sadness. Aside from the enhanced strength and speed, he very much suspected they liked him far less than they let on. Damned angels and their tightassed boss. He turns, surprised to see Soundwave leave through a groundbridge.

 

He follows, and plans to ask their leader just why they’d abandoned their objective so close to completion.

 

—

 

It had been a solid _day._ Soundwave delivered their reports, and Megatron occupied himself with them, outright ignoring Skyslayer’s requests to meet. He had so many questions, and it was annoying to be shrugged off.

 

Tired physically, and certainly tired of the other Decepticons, he gave up trying to get his superior’s attention. Vehicons all but tripped over themselves trying to get out of his way, although it didn’t really bring him any satisfaction. They weren’t demons, it simply wasn’t as enjoyable. He just turned to the hall with his quarters, heading in and closing the door to crash onto the berth for a rest.

 

Sleep—or the equivalent—claimed him before he could realize it, and the hours flit by. Thankfully he wasn’t completely instated as the SIC just yet, so he had no vital duties that hung over him.

 

He woke up, feeling particularly groggy. He hit the ground, straightening. Blinking away sleep, he turned, only to realize the slab was _far_ higher than he recalled. And his own hand was hanging off the edge. That snapped him into awareness, and he looked down.

 

Dull, armored fingers met him. Oh, there was exposed skin. The realization sinks in; he’d been returned to his human self. Immediately, he notices the lack of mobility with his armor. No annoyed fluffing. It felt like he was deaf and blind without the comforting sensation of his wings and all the sensors they entailed. Even his human eyes felt poor in comparison to the laser-sharp vision he’d sported before. No radio, no radar, no _anything._ How was it he’d conquered Hell in such a lackluster body?

 

In annoyance, he went to storm out; thankfully the motion sensors still opened the door for him. He felt heavy tread, and swore inwardly. The Vehicons might _step_ on him like this. He keeps to the shadowed recesses, making his way slowly to the bridge. He heads in, pleased to see Knockout—for once. Perhaps the doctor could explain this.

 

Sharp red eyes darted over in a glance, and he opened his mouth to spout his usual spiel, only to look down, freezing. Those eyes got big. His jaw dropped. He _screamed._

 

“ _HUMAN!!”_ He yowled, jabbing a finger down. Megatron seemed to _appear_ along with a trio of Vehicons.

 

“What in the Pit—“ Megatron stared down at him. He stared back. Megatron looked up, and he turned to follow the warlord’s gaze. Oh. His body followed him. “Skyslayer? Do you intend to tell me why you brought a slagging _human_ aboard my vessel?” He sounds terse, cursing aside. He almost wants to shrug, but discards the thought. It would be hard enough to explain— _scrrrape._ He shrugged, alright.

 

Just not with his human shoulders.

 

“What do you mean you don’t know?!” Knockout demands. He tries to think up and explanation, only to have his train of thought derailed as he watches the machine body fidget in all the ways he’s suppressing.

 

“The robot is mirroring my thoughts,” the bomber says suddenly, and he decides just as quickly that he doesn’t like the sound of his own voice from the outside.

 

“...What?”

 

“Yeah, hey. Down here.” He waves, gesturing to his own head. “Something happened, I got put back in here. Trust me when I say Skyslayer is fine—because _I’m_ Skyslayer.” This wasn’t working as well as planned. Might help if he wasn’t practicing ventriloquism on the world’s biggest dummy.

 

“ _Back_ in?” Knockout murmurs, getting over his apparent phobia to crouch nearby, eying him.

 

“Yeah. I was a human.” He sees the glimmer of recognition in Megatron’s eyes, and decides to capitalize on it. “You know. You were in Hell. I wasn’t always like this. The ones who stuffed me into this robot body here are the same ones that put me back.” He hears—rather than feels—the waver in his vocoder. Strange, but not entirely unexpected.

 

“So, you’re the same warrior I know. Simply… residing in a different form.” He nods rather than risk speaking. “Very well. I did see such things. Knockout. Take him to medbay. We need a plan.” Knockout looks almost disgusted, but relief smooths his features when—with some struggling—the Hellwalker manages to clamber onto his own hand.

 

The walk feels longer than it is, but at least it’s kind of easy to coordinate the robot body. Just think about walking, but not actually act on the thought. Knockout keeps glancing back at him uneasily, but takes him to medbay without fuss.

 

He sets his human self on one medberth as instructed, puppetting the other body to lay on the other. It’s so weird. Knockout hums in approval, turning to his console and starting a commlink.

 

Shockwave. He’d heard murmurings through the rank and file about the Decepticon scientist and his twisted experiments. Knockout sends a textcomm before the video link can firm up, explaining what he can.

 

Almost as soon as the link solidified, Shockwave was _muttering,_ shaking his head slightly.

 

“Illogical,” he huffed. “ _Illogical.”_

 

“I don’t control the heavens,” Skyslayer pointed out from his medberth. Knockout sent him a pinched look.

 

“Your claim, Megatron’s behavior, this human… illogical.” His lone eye gets bright and sharp, staring Knockout down harshly. “And you plan to carry this out _why?”_

 

“Megatron’s orders,” the medic sighs. “He simply told me to find a way to make it work, so I contacted the one mech who could.” Shockwave stares at the bomber—and human perched beside it—with an uncanny alertness.

 

“Very well. This will be complex. Best to carry out any and all repairs needed at the same time.”

 

“Believe me. I’ve got a list.”

 

—

 

It felt like ages before he woke up. Everything burned, but particularly the back of his neck. He reached back, delicately touching the source of pain; an angular, indeterminate shape was planted there. Just touching it hurt, so he dropped his hand. His other body was still in stasis, lifeless on the berth beside him.

 

Megatron, not Knockout, was the one to finally enter. He looked up, the ex-gladiator hovering a respectable distance away. He shrugged; _can’t talk until it wakes up._ He took a seat, eying the armored human before watching the other, silent.

 

“Certainly a strange happening,” Megatron says, quietly. He watches the Cybertronian body, the way it twitches, waking up all at once. Suddenly, he feels like he’s seeing double. It sends him reeling, and he staggers across the surface of the medberth, crumpling weakly. The other jerks a clawed hand up, cradling its helm and letting loose a ragged groan.

 

“Fuck. Everything hurts. And I’m seeing double.”

 

“We had Shockwave pass along plans for an experimental variant of cortical psychic patch, which Knockout implanted in both bodies. It’s going to hurt.”

 

“You plugged an _experiment_ into my skull. Fabulous.” Both roll their eyes, and the machine gets up, surprisingly steady. His movements are more fluid now, and he picks up his human self. A snap, and the human part clambers into the cockpit of the other.

 

He settles in, easily, closing the chamber and resting back. Red eyes turn back up toward Megatron.

 

“It seems to suit you fine.”

 

“Maybe. So, about that Second job.”

 

“I find your tact suitable.” There’s something sly in the ex-gladiator’s expression.

 

“Just suitable?”

 

“It’s certainly less gear-stripping than Starscream. The job is yours.” He grips Skyslayer’s shoulder firmly. “You may not have been sparked a Cybertronian, but you fit amongst my mecha as one.”

 

“I won’t disappoint.”

 

“No. I suspect you won’t, _Hellwalker.”_


End file.
